


A Brave, Ineffable World

by ashley_wawryk



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashley_wawryk/pseuds/ashley_wawryk
Summary: This story is a crossover between the creative genius of Good Omens (mini-series rendition included, I'd be loony to omit it), and the beautiful world of the video game, Red Dead Redemption 2.  If you have yet to read Good Omens or watch the mini-series, all I have to say is, "Where have you been?"But seriously, read the book or watch the mini-series if you have yet to do so.This story is shamelessly littered with references from both Good Omens and Red Dead Redemption 2, and it includes two of my own, personally devised characters.  If you have not played RDR2, I implore you, either watch the cinematic clips on YouTube or, better yet, go out and buy the bloody game.  You won't be disappointed.(As a general aside, I have a visual condition which occasionally impedes my writing and my general day-to-day activities.  As such, I have formatted the story into easy-to-read segments.  Sorry [not sorry, deal with it] if this drives anyone insane).





	1. A Brave, Ineffable World

“You were right, dear.”

Pushing the errant strands of crimson from his slitted, golden eyes, Crowley craned his neck round and tossed Aziraphale a dubious frown. “Oh? About what, exactly?”

“Horses.” Aziraphale answered, as if the simple utterance of the word were enough to instantaneously jog the demon’s memory.

Crowley’s frown deepened significantly, and he remained silent, furiously sifting through the dusty, cobwebbed file folders of six millennia’s worth of memories. The gentle clop of hooves punctuated his quiet rumination. After several moments, he drew a blank and bobbed his thin shoulders in a puzzled shrug. “Uh, what was it I said about horses?”

“The Globe Theatre. London, 1601. We both had assignments in Edinburgh, and I mentioned that my office required me to ride a horse. You said –“

“Right! Major design flaw, horses.” Crowley exclaimed as the memory emerged with startling clarity in his mind’s eye. A scowl curled the corners of his lips and curdled his tone into a scoff. “Hurt the buttocks. I don’t know about you, but my prior statement still stands as the irrevocable truth.”

Aziraphale nodded, wincing as his horse trotted carelessly across an uneven grassy knoll. The action caused the angel to jolt uncomfortably in his saddle, and he ran a soothing hand along the elegant slant of its neck, whispering sweet, reassuring nothings in the animal’s ear. “Yes, I concur. Major design flaw, despite their beauty.”

The supernatural beings fell into a companionable silence as they steadily plodded onward throughout the lazy summer afternoon. The year was 1899, and with the dawning conclusion of the 19th century brought with it an inexplicit buzz of excitement throughout the state of New Hanover, America. Humanity’s insatiable hunger for technological innovations accelerated at an alarming rate; the 1800s ushered in several revolutionary creations. George Stephenson designed the first successful steam engine in 1814, swiftly and unabashedly casting the doors of opportunity ajar for the expansion of America. The typewriter, birthed in 1829 by W.A. Burt, piqued Aziraphale’s interest, to the point where he ventured determinedly from his bookshop in London and purchased one. He had proudly placed the device on display in the bay window of the shop, as if a mere glance from passersby would proclaim that, yes, this was a bookseller on the technological up-and-up. Alas, the angel vastly miscalculated with this innocent gesture, and found himself grudgingly selling pieces of his prized book collection as a surge of customers were initially drawn into the shop by the typewriter’s beauty. They always left with one of Aziraphale’s treasured tomes, and a bit of the angel’s soul crumbled with each departed book. Several years later, he learned his lesson and retired the cursed machine to the backroom, lest it be spotted by eager, prying eyes.

Bicycles or, as Aziraphale infuriatingly dubbed as ‘velocipedes’ emerged in 1839. The year of 1866 saw the creation of dynamite, which Crowley proudly claimed as his own stroke of genius, despite the fact that the brains behind the innovation belonged to Albert Nobel. The telephone, established in 1876, proved to be the most intriguing thing to crawl from the minds of humanity. Crowley viewed it both as a blessing and a curse; no longer did one need to wait for weeks or months to receive a reply. However, this also meant contact was a simple manipulation of the fingers upon the machine and BAM, instantaneous connection. He had to eventually beg Aziraphale to cease calling him every five minutes, for he was not invested in learning about the ground-breaking ‘intricacies’ of Dickens or Poe.

Lifting a perfectly manicured hand to stifle a cavernous yawn, Aziraphale fixed his cerulean eyes upon the darkening horizon. The sun had begun its lazy, habitual descent, and the cloak of twilight bled into the atmosphere, bruising the skies in various hues of bruised purple and burnished crimson. They still had a few hundred miles to cross before they reached their shared destination and, at this rate, they would have to ride well into the evening and the wee hours of the morning before they finally rolled into the small town of Valentine. Clearing his throat, Aziraphale adjusted his top hat and said, “Perhaps we should set up camp for the night? We should give the horses a rest. I cannot recall the last time we rested, and I am famished.”

The dwindling sunlight struck Crowley square in the eyes, and he released a short hiss, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. The demon nodded in agreement, momentarily slicing his gaze across the terrain. “How about we camp in those trees over there? It’ll provide some cover.” Not that they required the elusive cloak of the forest; although outlaws and thieves continued to plague New Hanover, a simple ethereal or occult miracle was the only thing the duo needed to divert the attention of outsiders.

“What do you think, Glen?” Aziraphale cooed endearingly in his horse’s ear. Glen released an affirmative snort and tossed his head, sending an appreciative wave billowing throughout the tresses of his luxurious, obsidian mane. Glen, short for Glyndebourne, was a stunning black Arabian. Crowley’s stallion, Mozart, was also of the same Arabian lineage, sporting a coat of the purest, ethereal white hue. The great beasts were a perfect juxtaposition of their respective riders.

The angel and the demon gently guided their horses under the protective canopy of the trees and dismounted. They tethered the animals and dove into the task of setting up a rudimentary camp. Aziraphale agreed to erect the tent while Crowley set off in search of something edible for dinner. In Crowley’s absence, the angel procured enough firewood to suffice for an adequate fire and retrieved the large, tartan blanket from his saddlebag. Laying the blanket reverently by the campfire, he sat down upon it and waited. 

Two hours transpired before a sharp rustle of foliage startled the angel from his thoughts. The thick shroud of night had descended upon the campsite, the shadows poorly illuminated by the resplendent splash of stars and the glowing grin of a half-moon suspended high upon the canvas of the skies. Blinking stupidly, Aziraphale huffed a disgruntled sigh as Crowley emerged from the bushes. The smell of death assailed the angel, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. “What took you so long? I was beginning to worry!”

“Oh, perhaps you should have been in charge of dinner tonight instead?” Crowley hissed coldly, releasing a grunt as he dropped the freshly slain deer carcass at the edge of the camp. “How is it my fault that you don’t have the stomach to –“

“No, I apologize.” Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale hastily averted his gaze to the hypnotic dance of the campfire as Crowley proceeded to remove a devilishly sharp hunting knife from his gun belt. “I appreciate it, I simply grew worried that something had…”

“Happened to me?” Crowley finished as he set about skinning the animal, the ghost of a smile threatening to split his lips. 

“Well, yes. You know that we cannot be too careful.” Aziraphale said emphatically, gesturing with his head to Above and Below, their respective offices.

“This is the Wild West, angel. Our sides are too concerned with Europe to bother hopping across the Pond to notice a thing.” A virtuoso of his craft, he flayed the succulent meat from the dearly deceased deer, properly disposed of the carcass a few clicks from their location, and hastily returned to the campsite. “What have we got for seasonings?” Crowley asked as he removed a cast-iron pan, two plates, and two sets of cutlery from his saddlebag.  
“Thyme, oregano, mint. Which would you prefer?”

Removing his sunglasses and carefully sliding them into the pocket of his waistcoat, Crowley settled beside Aziraphale and gnawed on his lower lip, debating the options. “Hmm, perhaps thyme?”

“Certainly, chef’s choice it is.” Aziraphale beamed as he handed Crowley the thyme. While Crowley had ventured into the forest in search of game, Aziraphale had scrounged about the outskirts of their camp in search of herbs and berries. He was pleasantly surprised to find several sprigs of thyme encroaching upon the outer reaches of the camp, along with several plentiful raspberry bushes. The night slipped seamlessly between their fingers like sand as dinner eventually progressed to a dessert of fresh berries and several bottles of the finest red wine, courtesy of Aziraphale. The hour struck 2 A.M., and the companions found themselves deeply invested in a slurred conversation about the state of North America, and the goings-on of the past century.

“Angel, refresh my mem-memree,” Crowley stuttered, sloppily stealing a pull from the bottle of red wine before offering it to Aziraphale. “Was the War of 1812 started by one of ours, or yoursssss?”

Brows knitting into a perplexed frown, the angel graciously accepted the bottle and lifted it to his lips. The action proved to be far too swift, and a splash of red wine stained his favorite waistcoat. The angel failed to notice, so deep in fuzzy contemplation was he. “Errrrm…I can’t recall.” He drawled at length. He slowly placed the bottle between them with the reverent care of one holding a live grenade, fully aware that the slightest slip of the hand might send the device into an explosive tizzy. It was the trained movement of one who is fully aware of the consequences of inebriated carelessness, that the sacred liquid housed within the bottle had been ruinously spilled one too many times in the past, and the cautious compensation of slowed actions was of utmost importance to preserve the precious nectar. “’Um afraid I was in France at the time. Didn’t you have a hand in 1812?”

Crowley nodded sagely, trailing his long, thin fingers along the neck of the bottle. “In a way, yeah. It was the Brits and the, the French against the ‘Mericans, I think. Oh, and the northern natives. And their offspring.” He added, a guilty lilt wavering mockingly in the thrumming flames of the campfire.

The angel fixed his demonic counterpart in a dubious, swaying stare. “Huh? Their ‘offspring’? You s-say it as though that were a bad thing?”

“Not a bad thing,” Crowley grumbled, snatching the bottle and stealing a hefty swig. Swallowing, he licked his lips and, at length, admitted, “My lot told me to go stir the pot up north, as per ussssual. I was stationed in that country they now call ‘Canada’. They said the natives were to be vanquished by any means necessary. So, I get up there, and I find all these natives having a laugh ‘nd gettin’ along famously with the Brits and the Frogs, ‘nd I thought, ‘Heaven, I may asss well let them have one last joyous momunt’. So, I sort of tempted them to, well…” he trailed off, slicing his slitted gaze from Aziraphale to the sinuous dance of the flames. He winced beneath Aziraphale’s expectant stare, and he sluggishly plodded onward. “Some of ‘em ended up havin’ kids, the natives and the Europeans. Their offspring fought ‘longside them in the war. Call themselves the ‘Metis’.”

“Sorry, love, did you say that they called themselves ‘the Mets’?”

“Nonononononono, angel, it’s Metis.” Crowley groaned as Aziraphale returned his explanation with stoic uncertainty. “It’s spelled M-E-T-I-S. Metis. Think, ‘Oh, there’s mah-tea!’”

“Errr…I’m still not following.”

Crowley wracked his inebriated brain for a tangible reference the angel might comprehend. His face brightened with a whimsical grin. “O-ohkay, it’s like this. Arrrrrr, me matey!” he drawled drunkenly, teeth fixed in a stereotypical pirate snarl.

Deadpanned silence met Crowley’s intrinsic explanation. “Why would they call themselves that?”

“Dunno, think it’s French or sumthin’.”

An uncontrollable fit of laughter bubbled in the angel’s throat, and his thoughts bled into the waves of the microcosm of pirates. He reciprocated in an illuminated hiccup, “Ooooooh! Yes, arrr, me matey! Ye scallywag, confess to yer indiscretions or prepare to walk the plank to a salty demise!”

Several moments passed as the duo traded their best, inebriated rendition of salty sea dogs. The symphony of the night broke out in full force; crickets chirped their throaty ballad, and frogs cheerily professed undying love to their prospective suitors. The fire diminished as the hours passed, and Crowley polished off the remainder of the bottle, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. The din of the campfire had all but fallen into a lethargic smolder. Stifling a cough in the crook of his arm, Crowley turned his golden eyes to the majesty of natural artwork splashed across the heavens. “D’you think it’s possible to, uhhh, ‘unFall’?” He hazarded apprehensively.

Silence met his query.

“I mean, it’s not like a demon has ever ‘transitioned back,’” he stumbled on, driven by his innermost thoughts which, under sober circumstances, would have laid buried several feet deep in his heart and would never be laid bare to anyone, especially Aziraphale. “Ever. B-but, d’you think it’ssss possible? I din’t exactly Fall, I just sorta sauntered vaguely downwards. Mah question, isss it possible to saunter vaguely upwards?” The orchestra of crickets and the frogs answered his question. Blinking, the demon looked to his right to find Aziraphale fast sleep, curled into a fetal ball upon the tartan blanket. His head rested a mere inch from Crowley’s thigh. Emitting a frustrated sigh, the demon leaned down, patted the tousle of golden curls crowning the angel’s head, and whispered, “C’mon, angel, time for bed.”

Aziraphale groaned and nudged his head further into the demon’s leg, rumbling something incomprehensible. Rolling his eyes, Crowley gently coerced his friend into the tent. Curling up on the thin travel mattress, the angel fell hostage to the inexplicable pull of dreams and, shortly thereafter, began to snore softly. Crowley stood above his closest confidant for several moments, his vision swimming and duplicating in a dizzying array of shadow and moonlight. Releasing a soft scoff, the demon shook his head and, with the action, shucked aside the alcohol from his system. Retreating to the dwindling campfire, he grabbed Aziraphale’s tartan blanket and draped it across the ethereal being’s slumbering form. “Pansy,” he rumbled as he settled atop his own travel mattress, stationed several feet away from the angel. The seductive call of the dream world tugged incessantly at the back of his serpentine eyes and, stifling a weary yawn, the demon turned his back upon Aziraphale, and immediately found himself suffused under the comatose cloak of sleep.


	2. An Old Friend

“What was the word again?”

“Metis, angel. Metis.” Digging his spurs into Mozart’s flanks, Crowley goaded the magnificent beast into a steady acceleration, angling his body forward as they galloped farther into the afternoon sunshine. His sunglasses slipped ever-so-slightly, and he lifted a hand to shove them more firmly upon his face. “Do you not recall anything from last night?”

Aziraphale dove into the muzzy kaleidoscope of memories from the night prior. “Uhh, I vaguely remember something about the War of 1812. Were we dancing at one point? I recall trying to teach you the Gavotte-“

“For Hell’s sake, no.” Crowley hastily interjected, casting the angel a glower so intense in its frigidity that Hell would surely have frozen over in fright. “No, we did not dance.”

“You provide a valid point,” Aziraphale groaned, using his free hand to massage his screaming temples. “Neither angels nor demons are particularly keen on dancing, are they?”

If the angel had not been so acutely focused on the rhythmic pace of Glen or the pounding sensation jackhammering at the inside of his skull, he may have caught the subtle flush in Crowley’s thin cheeks, and the flippant manner in which he dismissed the topic of them ever dancing together. For the purposes of science and inquiring minds perhaps, in a hypothetical world, the angel and demon had succumbed to the temptations of the drink and displayed their mediocre, cringe-worthy dancing skills to one another under the soothing lights of the heavens. Perhaps, in an alternate universe, Aziraphale guided Crowley through the intricacies of the Gavotte. More unlikely, Crowley educated Aziraphale on the finer elements of the Waltz. Surely, the ridiculous scene was simply the manifestations of an inebriated, ethereal mind.

Perhaps, the aforementioned events actually did occur. No one, aside from God herself and the current, present party would ever be able to confirm.

“That sheriff in Tumbleweed, he was a piece of work, wasn’t he?” Crowley shouted over the deafening pound of hooves.

“Yes, he was!” Aziraphale returned, lips pulling into a guilty sulk as Glen attempted to match Mozart’s speed. “His intentions were good, mind you.”

Crowley stared at the angel as though another head had miraculously sprouted from his shoulder. Gently tugging on the reins, the demon slowed Mozart to an even trot, which Aziraphale and Glen mirrored. “You do remember what he said when we walked into town? He said to that poor bastard laying in the dirt, ‘The sentence is death. Make your peace, partner. This is wartime.’ Shortly thereafter…” Briefly removing his hands from the reins, Crowley pantomimed a flawless rendition of the sheriff in question blowing a potentially innocent man’s brains into oblivion. He accentuated the scene by adding the disturbing, squelchy sound of the poor sod’s head exploding in a horrific splash of red. Mozart huffed a derisive snort and shook his head, as if he were well-versed in the English language and found the story repulsive.

“Well, some of our human operatives get a little carried away,” Aziraphale relented. “I do worry about that lovely young woman we assisted to Armadillo. She was in such a dreadful condition; I hope she sought out the local physician.”

Forever the optimist, Crowley thought. The duo had stumbled upon the woman at the halfway point of their journey through the scorched lands of New Austin. The poor creature staggered deliriously along the edge of the dusty, blistering road leading from Tumbleweed to Armadillo, her thin form displaying the symptoms of Scarlet Fever; a speckled, crimson rash decorating the emaciated curves of her neck and arms, and the complaint of a persistent, unquenchable thirst. Pulling to the shoulder of the road, Aziraphale insisted that the woman ride with them to Armadillo, much to Crowley’s chagrin. Rumors of an impending pandemic whispered throughout the numerous sanctums of Hell long before Crowley was assigned his current mission. The state of New Austin, home of Tumbleweed and Armadillo, were predicted as the catastrophic epicenter of the pandemic. Frankly, Crowley was not surprised in the slightest of the evidence of the outbreak of the Scarlet Fever. Alas, he kept his comments to himself, for he did not want to further upset the angel. 

“I’m sure she got along just fine,” Crowley monotoned eventually. He refused to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, and abruptly changed the subject to the future tasks at hand. “So, when we get to Valentine. I’m supposed to infiltrate a gang of outlaws settled on the outskirts of town. What do you have to do again?”

“How ironic. I, too, have been assigned to a gang settled in the outlying area surrounding Valentine. The gang in question, their leader’s name is-“

“Dutch van der Linde.” They intoned simultaneously. Unfortunately, the phrase ‘Jinx! Buy me a Coke!’ had yet to be invented, and the friends shot each other a shared, incredulous stare.

“Well, this is new. It appears we will be brushing shoulders as we complete our own assignments!” Aziraphale chuckled. A hint of apprehension slithered at the edge of his tone.

“And what is your business with van der Linde?” Crowley pressed, his curiosity piqued. His serpentine gaze slithered to the heavens, and he internally warned, God, if you’re testing our loyalty to our respective parties, I’ll… He let the empty threat slip and crumble piteously, trampled beneath Mozart’s determined footfalls.

“I’m meant to perform several minor miracles, followed by the administration of a particular human’s last rights over the course of several months. And yourself?”

“Similar circumstances, except I’m tasked with completing several temptations, and the potential possession of a man’s soul for our side.” A beat of contemplative silence transpired, and the demon felt the pieces of the puzzle quickly falling into place. “Ugh, so let me get this straight. We will be canceling each other out, again?”

“Well, initially, it would appear so. However,” Aziraphale continued, pausing to guide Glen across a small, babbling brook, “we cannot be too certain of the size of the gang. Perhaps our assignments will not conflict? Who knows, the gang’s territory may be so vast that we will barely see each other.”

Crowley met the angel’s optimistic smile with a dubious scowl. “I hope you’re right. Not that I don’t want to run into you. I suppose we’ll have a better understanding of the situation once we locate the gang and settle in.”

“Yes, I believe we will.”

Nodding, the demon pulled the brim of his hat lower atop his head to shield from the sun’s steady descent. “Dinner’s on you tonight.”

Aziraphale made a move to argue, only to reflect upon the past several nights where he had been treated to Crowley’s surprisingly superb culinary skills. “Err, yes, dinner’s on me tonight.” With that said, they spurred their horses onward, treading ever-closer to the tiny town of Valentine.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Afternoon slowly gave way to evening, and Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves casually strolling the streets of Valentine as the stars emerged from their slumber, lazily illuminating the damp, main dreg of the town. If one were to bother taking the time out of their day to describe Valentine, two separate explanations would surface. The most overwhelming response would hail from the mouths of the locals, whom held nothing but robust feelings of love and admiration for the tiny establishment. The latter half of the equation leaned significantly to the opposite side of the spectrum; they claimed that insidious secrets lurked in the small, cramped quarters of the saloon and the doctor’s office. They whispered of outside corruption slinking into the foundations of the buildings, and of a spiritual vibe they could only adequately describe as ‘rot’ nibbling at the corners of their minds. Families fled the area in droves; the underbelly of society remained, as if they had claimed the shit-splat town as their own long, long ago.

“The saloon is up there,” Aziraphale said, pointing to a two-story building at the end of the short street. “I wonder what the local cuisine is like?”

The demon swathed his gaze across the dishevelled vagrants peppering the streets. The lackluster presentation of the local population left much to be desired. Hundreds of beady eyes bore down critically upon the duo, suspiciously following as they neared the saloon. Nose wrinkling as a man shambled down the alley to their immediate left and upended the contents of his stomach, a slight shudder cat-pawed along Crowley’s spine and set his teeth on edge. “…however it rates, I certainly hope it isn’t what he had.” 

They mounted the wooden steps leading to the saloon, the sound of raucous laughter pouring from the belly of the establishment and spilling jubilantly into the street. The interior of the building was packed to the gills with Valentine’s lecherous, local filth. To their left, a man sat at a piano, pounding out a jovial tune with startling proficiency. A poker table lay to their immediate right, and several occupied tables were sprinkled sporadically about. A set of stairs sprawled at the rear quarters of the room, leading upstairs to three bedrooms.

A table for two miraculously cleared at the back, and Crowley secured the spot as their own as Aziraphale approached the bar. The angel returned several moments later with two glasses, three bottles of whiskey, and an apologetic half-grin. “Sorry, dear, this is all they had. Hope you’re in the mood for steak.”

Plucking a bottle from the angel, Crowley removed the cork and stole an experimental sniff of the fetid liquid. “S’pose it’ll have to do,” he relented, lifting the bottle to his lips and emitting a disgusted hiss as the whiskey burned a determined path down his throat.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Y’know…y’know who I miss?” Aziraphale spoke with the slow, deliberate pace of one who is fully aware of the fact that they have transcended the point of sobriety and had dangerously tread into the realm of the inordinately pissed. The whiskey hit Crowley like a ton of bricks, and he blearily stared at the angel across the short plain of the table. When the demon failed to reply, Aziraphale leaned forward and dropped his voice to a scandalous whisper. “Mozart.”

Crowley barked a laugh, sitting back and resting his elbow on the back of his chair. “You can g-go pay him a visit right now, if y’want. He ‘nd Glen are tethered a few doorsss down.”

“No no, I mean, the Mozart.” A conspiratorial light flickered and danced in the angel’s cerulean eyes, and a sly smile camped across his lips. “I have an idea. You’ll love this.”

“OK, but first, I ‘ave a question.” Aziraphale wavered expectantly in his chair. “What on Earth compelled you tuh dressss like that? At what point did y’think, ‘Yes, this is the most incun-incon…inconspicuous attire. Imma blend in sssssoooooo well!’” The demon snickered as the angel, clearly insulted by his friend’s judgment, planted his manicured hands atop the table and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“My dear, I’ll have you know that this is stylish! ‘nd don’t you dare say another harsh word about tartan, you fiendish serpent.” Crowley had a valid point. Aziraphale stuck out like a sore thumb in this den of inbred scoundrels and indecent cretins; his beige and light blue ensemble hinted that the angel had recently gavotted out of the most flamboyant gentleman’s club in America.

“Yeah, stylish thirty yeers ago in London’s ‘higher society’, maybe. It’s your funeral,” Crowley drawled, giving the angel a critical once-over. His laughter trailed in the wake of Aziraphale’s short, miffed departure to the pianist. A thrill of panic bloomed in Crowley’s chest and made his blood run cold as he observed the angel’s tipsy swagger, the similarity of it to his own lackadaisical saunter dreadfully seared into his mind forevermore. Perhaps a bit of time apart once this business is sorted would be wise… Cheeks flaring fifty shades of pure embarrassment, the demon dipped the brim of his hat and focused the entirety of his attention on his whiskey.

The sands of time slipped unnoticed through Crowley’s fingers and he finally came upon two new developments: firstly, the pleasant drone of the piano was not playing Aziraphale’s requested Mozart. In fact, the pianist had abandoned his post at the instrument entirely. Secondly, the majority of the saloon’s vile clientele had formed a rowdy circle in the center of the dismal establishment. A man in a beige and blue suit, outdated by at least thirty years, stood in the middle of the circle, his perfectly manicured hands raised in the universal gesture of peace. Ripping his sunglasses from his face, Crowley spat a curse as he realized that it was none other than the angel – his angel – cornered like a deer in the headlights.

A burly fellow took a large step toward Aziraphale, his meaty fists clenched at his sides. “I said, what the hell business do you have in Valentine?” The man’s voice surged from his barrel-chest in the form of an intimidating baritone. He sent the angel stumbling several feet backward with a powerful shove to his chest. “Y’see, we don’t take too kindly to outsiders.”

“’Specially faggots,” the man at the gorilla’s side giggled, flashing Aziraphale a deplorable sneer. The few remaining yellowed teeth clinging desperately to the cretin’s gums sat at a haphazard angle, resembling crooked tombstones of a graveyard which had long ago fallen to the steady march of time.

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale beamed apprehensively at the slavering crowd. He had yet to sober up, and he swayed as he said, “S’cuse me, gentlemen, I was simply asking the lovely young lady when the barber opens in the morning. I don’t see any reason for this tomfoolery-“

“Oh, what? So you can look nice and presentable before your man over there bends you over and gives it to you?” another man crowed before unleashing a vicious punch. His fist connected solidly with Aziraphale’s cheek and he reeled, tripping over his own feet and, consequently, slamming his forehead on the edge of a table. The crowd erupted into a raucous cacophony of hoots and hollers, and they surged upon the fallen angel with the bloodlust of an unfettered pack of wolves. Several of the animals relentlessly delivered savage kicks to Aziraphale’s ribs and face.

Crimson fury unlike anything Crowley had ever experienced boiled and exploded, and he had crossed the length of the bar with a furious snarl before he fully realized he was in motion. Violently shoving his way through the crowd, he stormed up to the brawny leader of the mob, planting himself firmly between the beast and his angel. “That’s quite enough. I’m going to give you all five seconds to leave immediately, or else.”

A wave of laughter blanketed the saloon at the demon’s threat, discordant and grating. “Oooh, I’m shaking,” the great buffoon chuckled before speaking in a poorly executed British accent, “maybe your lifestyle is acceptable ‘cross the Pond, but we do not abide by the likes of you two. So why don’t you collect your woman here and git back to your side of the ocean, you fucking fruit!”

The symphony of pure, unbridled rage pounded incessantly beneath Crowley’s serpentine eyes and, lips pulling back in a frightening snarl, he lifted a hand, fingers poised to discorporate the heinous gathering. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” However, the demon’s moment of righteous triumph dissipated before he had a chance to snap the imbeciles out of existence. The discordant jeers of the bar were replaced by an unnerving vacuum of dead silence, save for Aziraphale’s labored breathing. The wretched humans stood frozen in time, as though a higher power had decided now was the best time to press ‘Pause’ on the scene and peruse the fridge for a snack. 

Wincing as he forced the alcohol from his system, Crowley rushed to Aziraphale’s side. “I told you that outfit was a bad idea.” The angel fixed the demon with a withering glower, and Crowley quickly shifted to the issue at hand. “Was that you?” he queried, nervously referring to the unexpected freeze of time as he thoroughly surveyed the physical damage wrought upon his ethereal companion. 

“N-no…thought it was you?” the angel wheezed, curling further in upon himself as waves of mind-splitting pain and nausea enveloped him.

“Nope, not me.” Crowley muttered. Passing a palm atop Aziraphale’s ribs, he hissed a short “Sorry,” as the angel’s shattered bones dexterously fused together. 

“Chalk it up to an old friend simply lending a hand.” The lights illuminating the saloon flickered and dimmed as a smooth, pompous voice emerged from the poker table. Whirling round, Crowley situated himself protectively between Aziraphale and the source of the sardonic tone. The demon’s heart sank and floundered piteously in his stomach as the man waltzed closer, removing the hat from his head and tossing it carelessly upon the poker table. To say the man in question struck an intimidating figure was the understatement of the century; muscular in stature, he possessed the immaculate demeanour of a Greek god. Running a bony hand through long, golden strands of hair, he flashed the duo a brilliant, toothy grin, accentuated by the deepening of the dimples in his cheeks. He was temptation and desire neatly giftwrapped in a roguishly handsome packaging.

Shit shit shit, why are you here? The demon’s thoughts flew into a panicked frenzy, and he swallowed thickly as he slowly shuffled closer to the felled angel. “Er, hey, long time no see.”

“I see you had a chance to meet the locals,” the man chuckled, straightening the lapels of his cream-white suit. He prowled closer, and Crowley found himself falling hostage to the man’s electric-blue eyes. The demon had heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul and, in this case, the man’s gaze exuded the ancient, predatory cunning of a honed killer. Folding his arms behind his back, the man lazily sifted through the paused crowd, diligently surveying each and every person until he finally settled upon the brutish instigator of the lot. A bead of sweat trickled down the fiend’s forehead as the man leaned into his personal space. 

“All right, everyone!” The mysterious man’s voice sang through every nook and cranny of the dismal establishment, and the frozen lowlifes stiffened to attention, as if they had enlisted in the army and this was their superior barking orders. “You will all vacate the premises immediately. Except for you two,” the man added, nodding to the crowd’s ringleader and his weaselly side-kick. The aforementioned rats gulped as their feet remained rooted to the floor, and the rest of the mob shuffled deliriously into the crisp summer night, for they had no choice in the matter. Strolling to the bar, the man patted the barkeep on the shoulder and stated, “Drinks are on the house for my friends and I tonight.”

Adam’s apple bobbing, the bartender nodded fervently. Grinning, the man returned his attention upon the two petulant creatures. He scowled and clucked his tongue as the burly one promptly wet himself, a heavy stream of piss staining his jeans. “Really, that isn’t becoming at all, is it?” Spitting a disgusted sigh, the man continued at length and growled, “Little one, I want you to slit your friend’s throat. Do it in the alley.” Finding their feet sufficiently broken from their cemented positioning, the men departed the building with the command guiding them. Several seconds passed, and the man loosed a chuckle from his throat as a blood-curdling shriek sounded from the adjoining alley, followed by the gentle lull of silence.

Crowley helped Aziraphale to his feet, and the man turned his attention upon them. “Awwh, Aziraphale! You were the angel of the Eastern Gate. You disappoint me, I thought you would have put up more of a fight than that.”

“I was reprimanded for performing too many frivolous miracles,” the angel replied with an air of uncertainty as he settled wearily into the nearest chair. 

Crowley claimed the seat beside the angel and muttered, “I tried to fix the worst of it. How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain,” the angel grumbled, cautiously eyeing his mysterious savior. “Who is that?”

Crowley cringed as the man retired to his former seat at the poker table. “That would be the successor to the throne of Hell, Lucifer’s eldest son, Chet.” The son of the Devil flashed the duo a brilliant grin and offered a lazy salute as the bartender deposited four drinks at the poker table.

The lights flickered sporadically and, eventually, returned to their regular cadence, revealing another figure seated comfortably beside Chet. “And the other one?” Aziraphale hazarded.

Crowley’s skin crawled unpleasantly as he continued, “And that would be the son of Death, Caim.” Caim lifted his sapphire-blue gaze from the pot discarded by the locals and dipped his head in a simple, unspoken greeting. 

“Come, join us!” Chet bellowed, gesturing at the two empty seats. “We have so much to catch up on.”


End file.
